


Self-Care

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Grantaire pov, I have expanded upon this, Other, and r is absolutely going to make fun of enjolras's coffee habits at a later point in time, bathtub venting, but i probably won't, but not in the traditional sense, but right now they're just talking, i could expand upon this, just another drabble, last chapter is Enjolras pov, no worries they'll argue later, sort of a get-together fic?, tag update: i lied, they might date someday, they're not dating, you'll find out soon enough - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 09:45:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15660705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: Grantaire is trying to relax and unwind from a stressful week when he gets a call from an unknown number.Warnings: alcohol mention (no abuse), cigarette mention (???  Does this warrant a TW??), descriptions of unintentionally not eating for extended periods of , language





	1. Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is trying to relax and unwind from a stressful week when he gets a call from an unknown number.
> 
> Warnings: alcohol mention (no abuse), cigarette mention (??? Does this warrant a TW??), descriptions of unintentionally not eating for extended periods of time, language

Grantaire has just finished dumping far too much of Jehan’s bath salts into the tub when he sinks in. He can feel the crystals digging into his skin as he settles, and there’s something nearly therapeutic about it. The scent of the salts permeates the room, and the tea lights are doing a stunning job of easing the persistent headache that has accompanied him nearly the entire week. 

Some people would say that purchasing a pint of Ben and Jerry’s just for the experience is silly, overindulgent, and a waste of money. Some people are _cowards_. 

He has just cracked the lid, spoon at the ready, when the strains of Claire de la Lune that have been emanating so peacefully from his phone come to an abrupt halt, a mind-numbing ringing tone taking their place. Grantaire groans, spearing the spoon into the untouched landscape and twisting his body to reach for the phone behind him.

It’s an unknown number. Grantaire should decline it, it’s his first night in in weeks, but he can’t help but imagine the untold danger that his friends’ recklessness may have brought upon them. He himself has certainly counted upon the good faith of his friends on more than one occasion to bust him out of whatever situation his actions had brought upon him.

With a sigh, he accepts the call. Oddly enough, he’s greeted with a groan whose exhaustion seems to match his own.

“Courf, it’s Enjolras. I’m in the tub, I’ve had a hell of a day and a half-glass of wine already, and I need to need to vent. You mind?”

Grantaire is clearly not “Courf,” and he has half a mind to inform Enjol-whatever of this, but the man plows on before Grantaire can even properly debate having some quiet time to himself versus the unexpectedly soothing dulcets of the mystery man’s voice.

“So we were out of coffee. Which was my fault, I was supposed to go shopping last night and got held up at the office again because the Patron-Minette legal team pulled that shit again where they buried us in mountains of pointless exhibits and documents. So Ferre was pissed and I was pissed, and we both missed our normal trains, which means I was basically already late when I arrived.

“And I know this is going to sound petty and elitist, so kindly spare me, but I asked that new intern to grab me coffee when I got in, and when he gave it to me it was black. Just. Black. No cream, no sugar, not even a little packet on the side. And I was so tired that I just _drank it_. And it was terrible, and I think I might hate him now, just for that.

“Anyway, I couldn’t finish going through all of the defense’s evidence by myself last night, so we tried to get started on that today, except that somehow between when I left last night and when I arrived this morning, a whole box got misplaced, as did my notes about what I went through last night. Spoilers: found it when I got home today. So that’s a whole morning that was wasted. Still can’t find that missing box, either.

“We ended up working through lunch—well, I did, the others wandered off and returned at various intervals, except John who just never came back. 90% sure he was hiding in the bathroom talking with his girlfriend again. Not like we need him, but it would have made things faster.

“I tried that delivery app that you keep raving about: apparently, they couldn’t find our office, which is the biggest load of horseshit I’ve ever heard, honestly. Wouldn’t care nearly as much if they didn’t wait two and a half hours to inform me that they wouldn’t be delivering my food. They didn’t charge me for delivery, but they still charged me for the food—can you believe it? It’s ridiculous. I bet it just got thrown away or eaten by the driver. There are people who really would have appreciated a hot meal in the middle of February, Courf.

“So you know, I’ve put in late nights every day this week and last week, and normally I would have done the same tonight, but I’m just exhausted. I haven’t gone to bed before midnight nor slept past 6AM in weeks, and all I have in my stomach is six cups of coffee and a donut hole, and one of those cups of coffee was black, which speaks for itself. At 6 o’clock, I want to go home. And d’Orleans had the nerve to give me a hard time for not staying later! I live this job, and the man tries to shame me into staying late the one time I try to go home only an hour after hours. I watch him leave every other day before me, how dare he try to make me feel bad for not putting in another sixteen-hour day?? 

“I finally get home and order takeout. Well, I ordered takeout on the way home, because I didn’t want to wait. And the takeout arrives about five minutes after I get home, which would be nice if they didn’t mess up my order and bring me everything with chicken instead of vegetarian. He had the nerve to tell me that I put the order in wrong! I had to show him the screenshot of the order screen before he'd believe me! He left the botched order when he went back to get the order fixed, which was good because when Ferre got back he seemed like he had eaten about as well as me—you know how he gets when he’s in the zone at the hospital—and I used it as a peace offering, which he might have accepted. He ate it, anyway, which seems like a good sign. And I remembered to get coffee on the way home today, so the experience shouldn't repeat itself tomorrow.

“And now, two hours later, I’ve finally eaten, called off work tomorrow out of something that might be spite—honestly, I’m entitled to two days off per week, and by that logic I am overdue for about a week of time off this year already—and I’m nursing what may become a whole bottle of wine before the night is done.” There is finally silence on the other end, a couple of seconds where the man seems to be catching his breath and, Grantaire suspects, may be making a pass at that wine he mentioned. “How has your day been?”

Grantaire takes a deep breath, removing a cigarette that he had lit around the takeout portion of the tale. “I’m not Courf, and I have no idea how you got this number,” he begins, taking quick drag, “but you will not believe the fucking day I’ve had.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed to get out of my head again, so here's another filler piece!
> 
> I swear, the big piece is fully planned and coming along nicely, there's just some parts that are difficult to flesh out when writing (as compared to planning).
> 
> Sorry, not technically ExR this time. I may expand on this someday, but I probably won't unless I get an overwhelming amount of feedback about this or something. It's most likely staying a one-shot.
> 
> Inspired by [this webcomic](https://writinginspo12.tumblr.com/post/175704339707/tastefullyoffensive-work-was-hell-today).
> 
> C O M M E N T S. I live for them, I love them, I disgust myself with how obsessively I check for them. Please. They bring me unreasonable amounts of joy. I also have a tumblr that you can reach me at [here](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Edit:**
> 
>  
> 
> So, remember how I said this would probably be a one-shot? I lied. Apparently flattery takes you extremely far with me. But please bear in mind, it was originally a one-shot, and you can stop here if you want.


	2. Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months later, Grantaire and Enjolras are still talking.
> 
> Warnings: ...this may be the very first time I have zero warnings to dole out? It's just a very nice, pure chapter.

Neither of them have said anything about it, but it’s been six months since the first misdial, and every Thursday Grantaire finds himself back in the bathtub awaiting their weekly phonecall. It’s not always a bad day, but they always find something to rant about, and Grantaire’s bath water is always lukewarm at best by the time the call is over. They never text, they never meet, and they never ask personal questions: this time is sacred.

“By the way,” Enjolras adds over the line one night. “Ferre’s been saying I’ve been much more relaxed recently, so I guess I owe you thanks for that.”

Jehan hasn’t said anything, but Grantaire can see the gleam in their eye when Grantaire gathers up his newly acquired bath bubbles and scented candles once a week. He’s been more positive lately, less morose and tired, and he knows he likewise has Enjolras to thank for the shift.

“Nothing that actually learning your intern’s name couldn’t have fixed,” Grantaire teases, deflecting.

“Look, I told you already, he’s such a nervous character that even asking him directly for his name was a challenge.”

“And now M. Pontmercy knows that you take your coffee like a weakling.”

“Oh? As opposed to a purist with no tastebuds? Life is short, I’m not wasting my time forcing myself to consume things I don’t enjoy.”

Grantaire has learned a lot of things about M. Enjolras in the past few months: he is a high-power lawyer, he enjoys his “coffee” half-filled with cream and several packets of sugar, he doesn’t get along with his parents, he lives with some mysterious all-knowing cryptid most often referred to as “Ferre,” women seem to launch themselves off of buildings at him (to his apparent disdain), and for some reason he almost seems to enjoy bickering with Grantaire.

The first time it happened was their second call—and honestly, Grantaire is still impressed that he managed to hold himself together through that first call. All it had taken was the observation, an implication really, that Enjolras wasn’t overly kind to people with jobs below his status. The effect was instantaneous and miraculous, with water audibly splashing over the receiver as the man sputtered. After twenty minutes of debate, a challenge had been issued, with Enjolras calling the following week to begrudgingly admit that Grantaire had maybe possibly made a somewhat valid point.

“Update me on your prank war with your manager: what has become of her this week?”

Starting a prank war with Eponine might just have simultaneously been the best and worst idea he has ever had. “Your idea with the fake surprise birthday was simply inspired, but she has definitely stepped her game up as a result: there were at least four alarms hidden in my bedroom as of three days ago, and I’ve only located two of them.”

“Has she noticed that Kim Jong-un is in her family photo yet?”

“Nope, and I pray she never will, because I live for my morning salute to our Supreme and Glorious Leader.”

That earns him a grunt of disapproval.

Grantaire has no idea why Enjolras went into law, politics is clearly his calling. It had taken until the fifth call for it to come up, and when it does Grantaire has to let and cycle fresh hot water into the tub twice before he can get a word in edgewise. He knows he shouldn’t—he doesn’t even disagree with Enjolras—but rather than simply agreeing with the man like a person with an ounce of common sense, Grantaire instead elects to dig into the nuances and weaker points of the man’s previous points, inciting a brand of rage and irritation and sheer passion that makes Grantaire sink further into his bubbles with a wide, amused grin.

He almost doesn’t expect Enjolras will call him back the following week, but at exactly 8:30PM Grantaire’s phone vibrates on the sink counter, same as every week, and a relieved-sounding Enjolras fills him in on his latest exploits.

Grantaire never calls Enjolras. He could, he knows, but part of him keeps expecting Enjolras to realize that six months ago he called the wrong person. Eventually Enjolras will realize that he has better things to do than listening to a stranger ramble about his two minimum-wage jobs and pick apart his personal beliefs. Until then, however, Grantaire waits every week in his bathtub.

“By the way, I’m going to be out of country next week.” Silence. “So I won’t be able to do…this.”

This is not in the script: they don’t volunteer personal information about themselves, and they definitely don’t talk about whatever This is. 

“Ah,” responds Grantaire. He has no idea what to say.

“But maybe we could meet up somewhere earlier in the week? I don’t leave until Wednesday morning, would Tuesday be okay?”

Tuesday would be great if Grantaire wanted This to leave the bathtub. Which he doesn’t.

“I think I’m scheduled through until Thursday,” he lies, trying to sound apologetic.

“Oh. Right. Well then. I suppose we’ll talk in two weeks, then?”

Again with the talking about This. It’s not as if Grantaire hasn’t made sure that his shifts have been scheduled around the routine, but acknowledging it out loud is something else altogether that Grantaire really doesn’t want to do.

He hums something remotely similar to agreement. “Well, good night!”

It’s still early in the night: usually their calls go on until 11PM or later, but tonight they barely hit the 9:30PM mark. Grantaire lifts himself out of the tub with a sigh, begrudgingly acknowledging the soak as complete. He dries himself off before slipping into a fleece robe and stepping into patterned slippers that Jehan bought for him. 

Two weeks, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment now or later...or don't. But I'd like it if you did. 
> 
> I also have a tumblr that you can reach me at [here](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)!


	3. Pt 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things feel a little different after Grantaire declines to meet with Enjolras.
> 
> Warnings: language, vaping

Normally they fall into an easy rhythm, and coming back from a foreign country Enjolras should have plenty to talk about, but instead he remains silent through Grantaire’s entire tale of his misguided customer from hell in call customer support that would not believe that he didn’t live in India and insisting that he put on his manager so she could “give him an earful about the quality of life that call center employees deserve to be able to maintain.” Normally Enjolras laughs at all of the right moments and a couple of moments that leave Grantaire slightly puzzled, maybe even going off on a tirade on white privilege or regaling Grantaire with statistics on child labor in India. Normally he does all of these things. But tonight he doesn’t.

“Which country did you abandon me for?” Grantaire eventually asks, trying to keep his voice light and laughing despite the drag in conversation.

“Um. France. Just a.” A sigh. “A case.”

Grantaire pulls a face. “Are you all right over there? We don’t have to talk tonight if you don’t want to, but venting about problems in our lives is kind of what this is for.”

It’s silent on the other end of the line for a few moments before he hears another heavy sigh. “No, I do want to talk. S’just. Ugh.”

“Ugh,” Grantaire repeats in agreement. “Did you catch the name of the guy who picked you up from the airport?”

“Jean,” Enjolras responds, and Grantaire can hear the smile returning to his voice.

“Make anyone cry?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but I was only there four days. I’m sure I could have brought everyone there to their knees weeping.”

“Is that a hint of oligarchy I detect?”

“No,” Enjolras stubbornly responds. 

“Ruling by fear,” teases Grantaire.

“I wasn’t even in charge of anyone!”

“Right. Just…what was it? Helping with a case?”

“Yes. I was helping with a case.”

“Hmph.” Grantaire pauses a moment. “Short case.”

“We were just helping. Building a case, going through evidence. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been hired out to help.” Grantaire takes a massive bite of cake from the plate balanced precariously on the bathtub ledge, ignoring the bubbles that have caught on the underside of the dish. “Did you ever find those last two alarms?”

“Nope!” Grantaire responds cheerfully through his mouthful of cake. He swallows before continuing. “The first two were cheapos from the Dollar Tree, so I just waited out the batteries in my roommate’s room and returned once they stopped going off.”

“How long did that take?”

“God, longer than it should have. Week and a half or so. Last night was my first night back in my room.”

“Your roommate didn’t mind?”

“Nah.” He takes another large bite of cake. “So, do you speak French, or did you need an interpreter?”

Enjolras makes a sound, and Grantaire assumes he caught him in the middle of a sip of wine. “Ah, my parents are first-generation Frenchmen, so I’m conversationally fluent.”

“Yeah? How do you say, ‘I need a change of clothes’ in French?”

Enjolras laughs. “Is this something you find yourself needing to say often?”

“Often enough. I now know how to say it in nine languages, though I’ve only ever needed it in three.”

The conversation returns to its usual banter, but something stays slightly off that Grantaire can’t quite put his finger on. 

His cake is long-finished and bathwater starting to sends chills down his spine. He’s switched to a vape pen since their conversations started, and he exhales that now, sending a minty stream of steam into the air. 

“Grantaire, I’d really like to meet you outside of these phonecalls. We have the same area code, I know we can’t be far from one another.” 

Grantaire takes another drag, deeper than usual, filling his lungs to max capacity before releasing the air. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Grantaire’s drag is shorter this time out of necessity. “We have a good thing like this. You do your thing, I do mine, and once a week or worlds remotely collide for a couple of hours. And then you return to your high-class lawyer gig and I return to my shitty apartment that I barely have the time to be in.”

“Is that what this is about? Our perceived wage gap?”

“No—although you can get out of here with that ‘perceived’ bullshit, we both know you’re not exactly billing your clients eight bucks an hour. I just…” He scratches his scalp with his free hand, careful not to let the pen come too close to his skin. “I’d just rather it stay like this.”

In truth, Grantaire isn’t sure what he’s afraid of: he knows Enjolras won’t treat him any differently when they meet in person. Maybe that’s what’s so terrifying to him, that instead of treating him as an equal like he does a world away, their friendship will stem from pity, like he’s one of Enjolras’s pro bono cases.

“If that’s the way you really feel, I understand. Just so you know, though, I would really like to meet you at some point. And I think my friends would, too.” Enjolras’s words come out measured and careful.

Grantaire grimaces. Jehan knows Grantaire has his ridiculous Thursday night ritual and has probably overheard the conversations before, but it’s not something he’s ever explicitly brought up. He’s certainly never described Enjolras to Jehan in enough detail that they would express any interest in meeting him beyond wanting to meeting his mysterious bubble bath conference buddy.

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

The conversation ends shortly thereafter. Grantaire doesn’t bother changing out of his robe tonight, flopping directly into bed with his slippers dangling precariously from his toes as he dozes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can comment now or wait until the end. ;) I'll love you either way. I also have a tumblr that you can reach me at [here](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)!


	4. Pt 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're nearing on nine months of talking, and Enjolras would really like to meet Grantaire.
> 
> Enjolras's perspective.
> 
> Warnings: language, cigarette usage

It has been three months since Enjolras’s first failed attempt to meet Grantaire. It has been eleven weeks since the trip to France that he lied about taking. It has been ten weeks since Grantaire explicitly told Enjolras that he has no interest in meeting in person. It has been seven weeks since Enjolras started scoping out local cafes that sound like the one Grantaire describes working at when he’s not at the call center. It has been five months since Courfeyrac started teasing Enjolras about Grantaire but four weeks since he has stopped. 

It has been three weeks since Enjolras was forced to accept that he is totally in love with an absolute stranger whom he’ll never meet.

Combeferre has been really patient about the whole thing, which Enjolras is eternally grateful to him for, and merely gives him a sad smile when the time comes for Enjolras to make his weekly walk of shame to the bathroom.

Enjolras is on his break—he takes those now, Grantaire says it’s hypocritical not to and harmful to the expectations that get placed on his fellow coworkers—and without thinking turns into a coffee shop around the corner from him. He’s been here before, but usually during the early-morning rush before work, and never to stay.

Despite that he’s on break, he’s brought his work with him, having already told d’Orleans not to expect him back until later in the evening if at all. His boss had nodded, finally seeming to have accepted that Enjolras’s newfound time to himself is not only non-negotiable but also reasonable and nearly beneficial to his work. He sets up his station at a table in a quiet back corner before approaching the counter for his order.

The man behind the counter looks messy but not dirty: his apron has smears of sauce, his hat is ajar, his dark curly hair is disheveled, and even his smile is crooked.

“What can I help ya with?”

Enjolras’s eye widen with recognition. His eyes peer down at the nametag: R. He’d roll his eyes if his heart wasn’t beating so fast. 

“Grantaire?”

The shock registers immediately. His eyebrows raise so that they’re invisible under the brim of his hat, bright blue eyes widening. 

“Oh. It’s…it’s you.” 

Enjolras had admittedly spent a lot of time imagining what Grantaire might look like, but it had never occurred to him to hope that he might look like this. Sure, his nose has clearly been broken more than once, and the sleeve of tattoos that cover his forearms might be offputting to some, but Enjolras isn’t sure he’s ever been so attracted to someone as to leave him speechless and short of breath like he is now. 

He checks behind himself quickly, hoping he isn’t holding anyone up with his inability to think thoughts or remember what he orders every day.

“Uh, vanilla frappuccino? Two extra shots of espresso, three extra shots of vanilla, chocolate drizzle, and whipped cream on the bottom and top.” Normally he stares the barista who takes his order into submission, daring them to laugh, but today Enjolras can only turn bright red when Grantaire laughs at his order as he punches it into the screen. 

“No extra cacao chips and cinnamon sprinkled on top?” Grantaire asks, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he grins.

This sounds like a heavenly suggestion, but Enjolras is already embarrassed enough as is and feels light-headed now that he finally knows the expression associated with the countless times he’s been teased over the past nine months. “Not today, thanks.”

Grantaire says a price that he barely registers, and he hands over the money he already has prepared in his hand, dropping the change in the tip jar and returning to his table.

Apparently it’s one of those cafes where they take your drink to you when it’s slow, and Grantaire approaches him several minutes later with Enjolras’s obnoxious order piled high in a plastic tumbler. Enjolras has finally collected himself enough that he can form coherent sentences, and his face nearly has feeling again that isn’t pins, needles, and flush.

“Hey Grantaire,” he says when the man comes by. “I know you said you didn’t want to meet, and I promise I wasn’t stalking you or trying to find you, but whenever your shift ends, do you think you’d want to sit down and talk? I mean, if you have time.”

Grantaire smiles. “I was actually going to ask if you’d mind. I’m off in about fifteen minutes, and I don’t work this evening because it’s Thursday. My ride usually gets here a couple of minutes late anyway.”

Enjolras’s grin is so wide it feels like his face might break. “I wouldn’t mind at all. I was planning on staying a couple of hours anyway, so it’s not as if you’d be changing my plans.”

Grantaire returns to the counter, and Enjolras hurries to the bathroom, splashing some water over his still-hot face and adjusting his curls in stupidly minute motions that he knows aren’t actually changing anything before he returns to his table to pretend to work.

He’s reread the same line four times when Grantaire finally returns, collapsing in the armchair across from him. The hat and apron are gone now, and he someone looks even more stunning. Enjolras shuts his laptop, nervously pondering the protocol for meeting someone you’ve been in love with for weeks and talking with for months.

“How was your day?”

Grantaire grins widely. “Pretty weird. I had this customer—totally absurd, stupid-tall with hair in a man-bun—come in with the most ridiculous order.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Absolute lowest tier of taste bud sophistication. He’s actually a legend among my coworkers, his order is so damned bizarre.”

“I’m sure he deserves it.”

“He does, I promise. And you?”

“Funny you should mention drink orders: I went to my nearby coffee shop and was mocked by my barista—his name was R, by the way, like the Goddamned letter, which is the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen with my own two eyes—for my order. So now I’m left feeling terribly insecure with my life choices.”

“Like venting weekly to a barista in a bathtub?”

“Especially venting weekly to a barista in a bathtub.”

Enjolras barely registers the person approaching their table until their put their hands over Grantaire’s eyes and kiss his cheek.

“Jehan,” Grantaire laughs, pulling the hands down from his eyes and pulling the red-haired stranger into a deep kiss.

Oh.

Oh.

Enjolras takes a shaky breath, hoping he’s misinterpreted something.

“Jehan, this is Enjolras: he’s the person you’ve probably heard me talking with during my self-care nights. Enjolras, this is my partner Jehan. We’ve been dating around three months now.”

Enjolras forces himself to speak. “Jehan! I’ve heard so much about you.” He extends a hand, and Jehan shakes it enthusiastically.

“I wish I could say the same, I’ll have to interrogate him when we get home,” Jehan says warmly with a wink. “I have to thank you: you guys’ phonecalls have really turned him around, and I am so grateful to you for that. He just comes home much happier and seems like he’s really been doing a better job of taking care of himself. And that just means the world to me.”

“Jehan, you’re embarrassing me,” Grantaire says, but he’s looking at Jehan like they’re his world, and Enjolras is trying to hide that way his chest feels like it’s crumbling inside of him. 

“Let’s get going, it’s looking like rain,” says Jehan. 

Grantaire grabs their hand and looks back at Enjolras. “You were right, we should have met a long time ago,” grins Grantaire. “Same time, same place?”

Enjolras shakes his head in something he hopes resembles a nod, but Grantaire and Jehan are already halfway out the door, and Enjolras sinks in his seat.

He packs up his things and steps outside. He debates with himself for a moment before stepping up to an employee standing outside on smoke break and asks to bum a cigarette and a light off of him, both of which are given.

Enjolras stands outside the shop, getting used to the feel of smoke in his lungs for the first time in years. It comes back more naturally than it should. His pocket starts vibrating. He pulls out the phone, staring blankly at the unknown number for several seconds before accepting the call.

“Oh hi Honey, it’s Joanne! Just soaking in the tub right now. So, tell me about your day!”

Enjolras takes a deep drag of the cigarette before stubbing it out in the tray next to the bus stop. “Joanne, I have no idea how you got this number, but you will not believe the fucking day I’ve had.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say it hurt me to write as much as it hurt you to read, but I take my luxurious baths in fandom tears, so...not quite. Also, from the beginning I told y'all it wasn't quite ExR. In my defense.
> 
> Comment, please! What did you think? It's my first work with real actual chapters. I also have a tumblr that you can reach me at [here](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Enjolras only smokes when he's really, really stressed. He's never really been addicted to tobacco, it just soothes his nerves. He's also never bought cigarettes or tobacco because he doesn't want to support the industry, he's only ever bummed them off of strangers. He knows it's not a perfect solution, but no one's ever spent extra just to support his consumption, and sometimes that just has to be good enough for him.


End file.
